Flame demons swept across the city. And in their scorching wake came a new horror. The firemen fighting the vast inferno suddenly toppled from their ladders, their shrieks piercing the blazing roar. For when those firefighters struck the pavement they were distorted, bloated husks . . . . Secret Agent X was at that fire. But his manhunt was blocked by a barrier of the bloated dead.

He dropped like a panther plummeting from a limb on unsuspecting quarry. Yet he was careful not to injure the blue-coated men. He merely knocked them off their feet, sent their guns spinning, made their flashlights crash.

Cursing, clawing, they went down in a heap beneath his outstretched arms and body. They struck with furious fists at this human whirlwind who had dropped apparently from the sky.

X untangled himself in an instant, backed away. He turned and raced forward along the way the police had come. He heard them behind him, searching frantically for their guns.

One located his weapon when the Agent had taken fifty strides. But the cop's flashlight was broken and the corridor was dark. The bullets that the policeman sent after X screamed harmlessly by. He ran on, reached the open door of the warehouse, plunged quickly through it-- and he knew that Bates and his operatives were also safe.